


The Stand of the Oriole

by bluetoast



Series: Birds of a Feather [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thinking about John always made Dean feel sick to his stomach. With the approach of an inevitable meeting, the feeling grew worse. Dean knew that if he confronted the problem - the sickness would go away forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stand of the Oriole

Dean knew better than to let any fame and adulation go to his head. He had seen it happen to many people – with fame came the demand to stay on top. He really had no intention of staying on top of the men's gymnastics world for the next three years only to crash and burn in Athens in 2004. It was always better to go out on top than to crash and burn. His coaches understood and his parents also understood. Most importantly, school always had to come first and graduation from college was looming – and he'd already accepted the scholarship to Stanford. The idea of getting to go school with Sam – to reconnect with the brother he was parted from when he was nine years old? That was far, far more precious than any award he could receive. They'd picked out an apartment in Palo Alto and someone from the School for the Deaf in Fremont had volunteered to install the few things that the place would need to be outfitted with for Dean to live there safely. 

In lieu of payment, the man in question had asked if it would be possible for Dean come and give a talk to some of the struggling students at the school. Naturally, Dean stated he would. He would have come for a talk anyway – though motivational speaking was never his strong suit. He never really felt completely qualified to give anyone advice on anything. He didn't even like to offer food suggestions for worry he'd get someone sick. 

There was just one thing that worried him about living with Sam.

John.

If he lived with Sam, there'd be a good chance the two of them would cross paths and Dean knew it'd turn ugly really fast. He didn't know if it was anger or something more that he felt towards the man. If John _hadn't_ left him in that hospital, he most likely would be dead. A stray bullet, another shtriga, something would have gotten him. Yet, at the same time – Dean couldn't think why John couldn't wise up and see what he was doing to his sons. Looking on the whole thing was like performing a Thomas Salto – land right and you'd get an adrenaline rush the likes of which you could never repeat. Land wrong and you could end up paralyzed for life. 

Hence the reason said move was banned from gymnastic competitions. Dean had tried one once in practice and had fallen flat on his back into the foam pit, the wind knocked out of him and the room spinning. 

He never did try the move again. He'd leave that crazy maneuver to little pixie Romanians who grew up on a diet of greens and lean meat. 

Dean could still remember the dizzy feeling – like going on those teacup rides where you kept spinning faster and faster until you were certain you would be thrown against a wall. Crazy thing was, those sorts of rides, you were usually able to control your spinning by the silver disc in the middle of the ride.  
That was the feeling that rose in his stomach when he thought about John. Dean knew that if he and John had the impending and frankly, necessary conversation, the sick feeling would go away. He knew he wouldn't shrink back to being nine years old and helpless with no one to defend him – but it was hard to _not_ believe it. 

Dean shook his head to clear it – wondering how many people had passed him staring at a box of Lucky Charms for probably a good five minutes. He added the box to his cart - he hoped Sam still liked the stuff – before heading up the cereal isle. He wanted to get back to the apartment before his brother arrived.

*

Once he put the groceries away, Dean set about unpacking the rest of this things. He didn't know when Sam was supposed to get here, or if John would even be with him. He was in the middle of making his bed when caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He saw someone rush past him in the hallway and then saw the bathroom door slam. He shook his head and turned back towards the kitchen. Two more people were coming in the door and he went back into his room to resume straightening framed photographs. He opened a shoe-box and pulled out a ceramic angel he found at a garage sale when he was twelve. True, he'd put up with a lot of crap about having something that girlish in his room from friends. But he had his reasons – the angel was _exactly_ like the one that had been in his room when he lived in Lawrence. Dean set the angel between the pictures of him and his parents and the only photograph he had of him and his momma. He let his finger run along the side of the one of him, Mom and Dad the day he graduated from college last May, smiled and lifted his head to look in the mirror. Out of pure habit, he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and took a deep breath. If he could just get through this meeting, he had a feeling that wretched dizzy feeling he always felt when he thought about John would go away. 

Almost as if he was thinking the exact same thing, Dean was almost surprised to find John standing in the doorway, arms folded, glaring at him. He was smaller than Dean remembered, and somehow old. Faint traces of gray ran through his hair – and where once he looked up several feet into the man's face, he was now just past eye-level with him.

“Well, aren't you all fancy?” John was glaring at him with that _look_ the same way hunters used to look at Dean like he was a worthless piece of trash.

“I think you need to check your adjectives.” He signed as he spoke, that awful sensation starting to bubble in his stomach.

“I don't have to check anything.” John glanced into the hallway and a moment later, Adam passed by, looking worried. “Go help your brother.”

Dean forced the bile back down his throat, wishing that John would just get on with it and stop skirting the issue. “What's the matter?” He spat, taking a step forward. “Can't stand the fact that I've risen above the level you thought I should be at?” He took another step forward, seeing that familiar look of anger on John's face he didn't think he could ever forget. 

“You've been lucky.” John's eyes narrowed. “You've had it easy.”

“Easy?” Dean had a feeling he'd yelled that, his throat hurt. “You don't know _shit_ about what I've been through!” 

“Dean Michael Win....” John's last word was cut off as Dean's fist slammed into the side of his face, knocking him back into the hallway and sending him to the floor. He was too stunned to get up right away. Instead, he found himself staring up at a towering young man with rage in his eyes. 

“My name is Dean Michael _Coulter_.” He stepped back into his room – the sick feeling gone – his mind was finally clear. “And I'm not nine years old anymore.” He slammed the door and leaned against it, smiling. He felt the door shudder as John started knocking on it. Let him pound on it till his hands broke – Dean wasn't going to give in to his demand. He flipped the lock and walked calmly back over to his dresser to resume unpacking. If not for the first time, Dean was rather glad he was deaf. He had to wonder if John was yelling at him on the other side of that door. He'd shut up soon if he was – the man might like to yell, but he couldn't keep it up for very long. 

Dean was glad he'd had the good fortune to inherit his mom's patience.


End file.
